The Story of Lucy Gaultby William Trevor
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"Dear Readers and Booksellers: If you have not yet experienced the great pleasure of a story by William Trevor, I urge you to read this new novel, and to set it in pride of place in your stores. Because the haunting story of Lucy Gault will not fail to capture you with its mystery, its compassion, and the beauty of its writing." -- Louise Dennys, Executive Publisher, Knopf Canada
William Trevor is beloved around the world as one of the finest writers today -- and with just cause: his new novel is a masterpiece of love and loss, and lives suspended in time.
Lucy Gault is nine when her parents are faced with the agonizing decision to flee Ireland to be safe from the violence that privilege and Lucy's English mother have brought upon them -- or to stay in their home and risk losing it to the threat of arson.
Lucy cannot bear the thought of leaving Lahardane's beautiful pastureland, the seashore below pale clay cliffs, and the nameless dog that has become her companion. So she runs away into the nearby woods to convince her parents to stay. Instead, her actions begin the unravelling of her family when they find two bits of her clothing and conclude she has thrown herself into the sea. Now desperate to be rid of the place where their much-loved daughter has died, Captain and Heloise Gault set off to wander restlessly across Europe. In the Lahardane woods, two weeks after the Gaults have gone, the groundskeeper finds the child lying lame and half-dead. He and his wife become Lucy's life companions as she keeps a 30-year vigil of love and guilt waiting for her parents' return.
About the Author: William Trevor's novels and stories have won numerous awards. The filmversion of his bestselling Felicia's Journey, directed by Atom Egoyan, premiered in 1999 at the Toronto International Film Festival. He won a Lannan Literary Award for Fiction, the David Cohen British Literature Prize and the 2001 Irish Times Literature Prize for Irish Fiction.
“Illuminating book from Ireland’s answer to Chekhov.” The Edmonton Journal
"[a] gravely beautiful, subtle and haunting Irish novel" The Guardian, August 31, 2002
"there will only be a handful of novels worth reading this year...and this book is certainly one" Literary Review, September, 2002
"a delicately rendered account of damage, guilt and grief" The Sunday Times, August 18, 2002
"simplicity, precision and a rare ability to understand the remarkable in what appears ordinary" The Sunday Telegraph, September 1, 2002
"The Story of Lucy Gault persists with the quality which other writers have admired in him for 30 years" Prospect, September, 2002
Praise for William Trevor:
“Often spoken of in the same breath as. . .Chekov, Trevor shares [his] subtlety, and, like [him], is able to create distinct and mysterious worlds.” National Post
“[Trevor is] the reigning lion of fiction in English.” The Globe and Mail
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Read an Excerpt
The Story of Lucy Gault
By William Trevor
Wheeler PublishingCopyright © 2003 William Trevor
All right reserved.
Chapter OneCaptain Everard Gault wounded the boy in the right shoulder on the night of June the twenty-first, nineteen twenty-one. Aiming above the trespassers' heads in the darkness, he fired the single shot from an upstairs window and then watched the three figures scuttling off, the wounded one assisted by his companions.
They had come to fire the house, their visit expected because they had been before. On that occasion they had come later, in the early morning, just after one. The sheepdogs had seen them off, but within a week the dogs lay poisoned in the yard and Captain Gault knew that the intruders would be back. 'We're stretched at the barracks, sir,' Sergeant Talty had said when he came out from Enniseala. 'Oh, stretched shocking, Captain.' Lahardane wasn't the only house under threat; every week somewhere went up, no matter how the constabulary were spread. 'Please God, there'll be an end to it,' Sergeant Talty said, and went away. Martial law prevailed, since the country was in a state of unrest, one that amounted to war. No action was taken about the poisoning of the dogs.
When daylight came on the morning after the shooting, blood could be seen on the sea pebbles of the turn-around in front of the house. Two petrol tins were found behind a tree. The pebbles were raked, acouple of bucketfuls that had been discoloured in the accident taken away.
Captain Gault thought it would be all right then: a lesson had been learnt. He wrote to Father Morrissey in Enniseala, asking him to pass on his sympathy and his regret if the priest happened to hear who it was who'd been wounded. He had not sought to inflict an injury, only to make it known that a watch was being kept. Father Morrissey wrote back. He was always the wild one in that family, he concluded his comments on the event, but there was an awkwardness about his letter, about the choice of phrases and of words, as if the found it difficult to comment on what had occurred, as if he didn't understand that neither death nor injury had been intended. He had passed the message on, he wrote, but no acknowledgement had come back from the family he referred to.
Captain Gault had been wounded himself. For six years, since he had come back an invalid from the trenches, he had carried fragments of shrapnel in his body, and they would always be there now. His injury at that time had brought his military career to an end: he would remain for ever a captain, which was intensely a disappointment, since he had always imagined achieving much higher rank. But he was not, in other ways, a disappointed man. There was the great solace of his happy marriage, of the child his wife, Heloise, had borne him, of his house. There was no other place he might more happily have lived than beneath the slated roof of its three grey storeys, the stone softened by the white woodwork of the windows and the delicate fanlight above a white hall door. Flanking it on its right was the wide high archway of a cobbled yard, with cobbled passageways leading to an apple orchard and a garden. One half of the circle on to which the front rooms looked out was the gravel sweep; the other was a raised lawn that was separated from steeply rising woods by a curve of blue hydrangeas. The upstairs rooms at the back had a view of the sea as far as the sea's horizon.
The origins of the Gaults in Ireland had centuries ago misted over. Previously of Norfolk-so it was believed within the family, although without much certainty-they had settled first of all in the far western reaches of County Cork. A soldier of fortune had established their modest dynasty, lying low there for reasons that were not known. Some time in the early eighteenth century the family had moved east, respectable and well-to-do by then, one son or another of each generation continuing the family's army connection. The land at Lahardane was purchased; the building of the house began. The long, straight avenue was made, lines of chestnut trees planted along it on either side, the woodlands of the glen laid out. Later generations planted the orchard, with stock from County Armagh; the garden, kept small, was created bit by bit. In 1769 Lord Townshend, the Lord Lieutenant, stayed at Lahardane; in 1809 Daniel O'Connell did when there wasn't a bedroom unoccupied at the Smarts' Dromana. History touched the place in that way; but as well-remembered, as often talked about, were births and marriages and deaths, domestic incidents, changes and additions to this room or that, occasions of anger or reconciliation. Suffering a stroke, a Gault in 1847 lay afflicted for three years yet not insensible. There was a disastrous six months of card-playing in 1872 during which field after field was lost to the neighbouring O'Reillys. There was the diphtheria outbreak that spread so rapidly and so tragically in 1901, sparing only the present Everard Gault and his brother in a family of five. Above the writing-desk in the drawing-room there was a portrait of a distant ancestor whose identity had been unknown for as long as anyone of the present could remember: a spare, solemn countenance where it was not whiskered, blue unemphatic eyes. It was the only portrait in the house, although since photography had begun there were albums that included the images of relatives and friends as well as those of the Gaults of Lahardane.
All this-the house and the remnants of the pasture land, the seashore below the pale clay cliffs, the walk along it to the fishing village of Kilauran, the avenue over which the high branches of the chestnut trees now met-was as much part of Everard Gault as the features of his face were, the family traits that quite resembled a few of those in the drawing-room portrait, the smooth dark hair. Tall and straight-backed, a man who hid nothing of himself, slight in his ambitions now, he had long ago accepted that his destiny was to keep in good heart what had been his inheritance, to attract bees to his hives, to root up his failing apple trees and replace them. He swept the chimneys of his house himself, could repoint its mortar and replace its window glass. Creeping about on its roof, he repaired in the lead the small perforations that occurred from time to time, the Seccotine he squeezed into them effective for a while.
In many of these tasks he was assisted by Henry, a slow-moving, heavily made man who rarely, in daytime, removed the hat from his head. Years ago Henry had married into the gate-lodge, of which he and Bridget were now the sole occupants, since no children had been born to them and Bridget's parents were no longer alive. Her father, with two men under him, had looked after the horses and seen to all that Henry on his own now saw to in the yard and the fields. Her mother had worked in the house, her grandmother before that. Bridget was as thickset as her husband, with strong wide shoulders and a capable manner: the kitchen was wholly in her charge. The bedroom maid, Kitty Teresa, assisted Heloise Gault in what had once been the duties of several indoor servants; old Hannah walked over from Kilauran once a week to wash the clothes and sheets and tablecloths, and to scrub the tiles of the hall and the stone floors at the back. The style of the past was no longer possible at Lahardane. The long avenue passed through the land that had become the O'Reillys' at the card table, when the Gaults of that time had been left with pasture enough only to support a modest herd of Friesians.
Three days after the shooting in the night Heloise Gault read the letter that had come from Father Morrissey, then turned it over and read it again. She was a slender, slightly built woman in her late thirties, her long fair hair arranged in a style that complemented her features, imbuing a demure beauty with a hint of severity that was constantly contradicted by her smile. But her smile had not been much in evidence since the night she had been woken by a shot.
Even though in the ordinary run of things she was not pusillanimous, Heloise Gault felt frightened. She, too, came of an army family and had taken it in her stride when, a few years before her marriage, she was left almost alone in the world on the death of her mother, who had been widowed during the war with the Boers. Courage came naturally to her in times of upheaval or grief, but was not as generously there as she imagined it would be when she reflected upon the attempt to burn down the house she and her child and her maid had been asleep in. There'd been, as well, the poisoning of the dogs and the unanswered message to the young man's family, the blood on the pebbles. 'I'm frightened, Everard,' she confessed at last, no longer keeping her feelings private.
They knew each other well, the Captain and his wife. They had in common a certain way of life, an order of priorities and concerns. Their shared experience of death when they were young had drawn them close and in their marriage had made precious for them the sense of family that the birth of a child allowed. Heloise had once assumed that other children would be born to her, and still had not abandoned hope that one more at least might be. But in the meanwhile she was so convincingly persuaded by her husband that the lack of a son to inherit Lahardane was not a failure on her part that she experienced-and more and more as her only child grew up-gratitude for the solitary birth and for a trinity sustained by affection.
'It's not like you to be frightened, Heloise.'
'All this has happened because I'm here. Because I am an English wife at Lahardane.'
She it was, Heloise insisted, who drew attention to the house, but her husband doubted it. He reminded her that what had been attempted at Lahardane was part of a pattern that was repeated all over Ireland. The nature of the house, the possession of land even though it had dwindled, the family's army connection, would have been enough to bring that trouble in the night. And he had to admit that the urge to cause destruction, whatever its origin, could not be assumed to have been stifled by the stand he'd taken. For some time afterwards Everard Gault slept in the afternoon and watched by night; and although no one disturbed his vigil, this concern with protection, and his wife's apprehension, created in the household further depths of disquiet, a nerviness that affected everyone, including in the end the household's child.
* * *
Still eight but almost nine, Lucy had made friends that summer with the O'Reillys' dog. A big, frolicsome animal-half setter, half retriever-it had crept into the O'Reillys' yard a month or so ago, having wandered from a deserted house - so Henry's guess was-and been accepted after some hostility by the O'Reillys' working dogs. Henry said it was a useless creature, Lucy's papa that it was a nuisance, particularly the way it scrambled down the cliffs to offer its company to whoever might be on the strand. The O'Reillys had given the dog no name and would hardly have noticed-so Henry said-if it had wandered off again. When Lucy and her papa had their early-morning swim, her papa always sent it back when he saw it bounding over the shingle. Lucy thought that hard, but did not say so; nor did she reveal that when she bathed by herself-which was forbidden-the nameless dog blustered excitedly about at the edge of the sea, which it did not ever enter, and sometimes ran about with one of her sandals in its mouth. It was an old dog, Henry said, but in Lucy's company on the strand it became almost a puppy again, eventually lying down exhausted, its long pink tongue lolling from its jaws. Once she couldn't find the sandal it had been playing with, although she spent all morning searching. She had to root out an old pair from the bottom of her clothes-press and hope no one would notice, which no one did.
When the Lahardane sheepdogs were poisoned Lucy suggested that this dog should be a replacement for one of them, since it had never really become the O'Reillys'; but the suggestion met with no enthusiasm and within a week Henry began to train two sheepdog pups that a farmer near Kilauran had let him have at a bargain price. Although devoted to both her parents-to her father for his usually easygoing ways, to her mother for her gentleness and her beauty - Lucy was cross with them that summer because they didn't share her affection for the O'Reillys' dog, and cross with Henry because he didn't either: all that, in retrospect, was what that summer should have left behind, and would have if there hadn't been the trouble in the night.
Lucy wasn't told about it. Failing to rouse her from sleep, her father's single shot became, in a dream, the crack of a branch giving way to the wind; and Henry had said that the sheepdogs must have gone on to poisoned land. But as the weeks went on, the summer began to feel different, and eavesdropping became the source of her information.
'It'll quieten,' her papa said. 'There's talk of a truce even now.'
'The trouble will go on, truce or not. You can tell it will. You can feel it. We can't be protected, Everard.'
Listening in the hall, Lucy heard her mama suggest that maybe they should go, that maybe they had no choice. She didn't understand what was meant by that, or what it was that would quieten. She moved closer to the slightly open door because the voices were lower than they had been.
'We have to think of her, Everard.'
And in the kitchen Bridget said:
'The Morells have gone from Clashmore.'
'I heard.' Henry's slow enunciation reached Lucy in the dog passage, which was what the passage that led from the kitchen to the back door was called. 'I heard that all right.'
'Past seventy they are now.'
Henry said nothing for a moment, then remarked that at times like these the worst was always assumed, the benefit of any doubt going the wrong way in any misfortune there'd be. The Gouvernets had gone from Aglish, he said, the Priors from Ringville, the Swifts, the Boyces. Everywhere, what you heard about was the going.
Lucy understood then. She understood the 'deserted house' the nameless dog had wandered from. She imagined furniture and belongings left behind, for that had been spoken of too. Understanding, she ran from the passage, not minding that her footsteps were heard, not minding that the door to the yard banged loudly, that hearing it they would know she'd been listening. She ran into the woods, down to the stream, where only a few days ago she had helped her papa to put in place a line of crossing stones. They were going to leave Lahardane-the glen and the woods and the seashore, the flat rocks where the shrimp pools were, the room she woke up in, the chatter of the hens in the yard, the gobbling of the turkeys, her footsteps the first marks on the sand when she walked to Kilauran to school, the seaweed hung up to tell the weather.
Excerpted from The Story of Lucy Gault by William Trevor Copyright © 2003 by William Trevor. Excerpted by permission.
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What People are saying about this
"Mr. Trevor's pure observation and transparent prose should shame other writers." (New York Sun)
"The Story of Lucy Gault . . . once read, will never be forgotten." (The Washington Post Book World)
"Beautifully drawn and revelatory. Beautifully drawn and revelatory." (Harper's Magazine)
"Beautiful and devastating . . . Trevor has once again captured the terrible beauty of Ireland's fate, and the fate of us all-at the mercy of history, circumstance, and the vicissitudes of time." (Alice McDermott, The Atlantic Monthly)
From the award-winning author of Felicia's Journey and My House in Umbria, a new novel that "may well be his masterpiece." (Philadelphia Inquirer)
Meet the Author
William Trevor knows the Ireland he writes of well, a country he frequently visits but hasn’t resided in for over a half-century. Born in Mitchelstown, County Cork, in 1928, his childhood was a tour of small provincial towns requiring his father’s authority as a minor official in the Bank of Ireland. After graduating from Trinity College Dublin where he met his wife of now fifty-one years, Jane Ryan he left for England. He and his wife now live in an 18th-century thatched cottage in Devon but his birth-country still serves as the setting for many of his stories. Paradoxically, Trevor has said, “I couldn’t write about Ireland if I was living there. I would be much too close.”
Dubbed as the Chekhov of contemporary fiction, self-described as “a short story writer who likes to write novels,” Wiliam Trevor is captivated by the human condition and what poisons relationships adversity, dark ambitions, miscommunication, vindictiveness, implications and insinuations, to name a few. “ A lot of people make easy mistakes and they can lead you into the most appalling tragedy,” he once said in a rare interview with The Globe and Mail. “That’s the territory I like where somebody does something which is small, slight, but has multiple consequences.”
Now age seventy-five, Trevor says he writes every day to stave off melancholy: the consequence of a writing obsession. Fortunately, the product of his obsession has been thirteen novels four of which have been nominated for the Man Booker Prize and a catalogue of novellas, short stories, essays, plays and memoirs, for which he has often been acclaimed the greatest writer in the English language today.
Much of his work has been adapted into film and televsion dramas, including “The Ballroom of Romance,” Fools of Fortune, My House in Umbria, and Felicia’s Journey, which was directed by Canadian filmmaker Atom Egoyan. An acquaintance of bestseller lists, Trevor has also been the recipient of numerous awards, including the Hawthornden Prize, The Yorkshire Post Book of the Year Award, the Whitbread Book of the Year Award twice and the Lannan Literary Award for Fiction. He is a member of the Irish Academy of Letters and an appointed honorary Commander of the British Empire in recognition of his services to literature.
- Devon, England
- Date of Birth:
- May 24, 1928
- Place of Birth:
- Mitchelstown, County Cork, Ireland
- Trinity College, Dublin, 1950
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The story revolves around a young Lucy Galt who spends much of her life in isolation and feeling guilty about how she hurt her parents. The tale takes place during the Irish Revolution and the events and travails experienced by the locals during this period of time.
Though the book makes you think for a long time after you read it, it is not something to read on a gloomy day. There is much problematic about it because of its slow style, depressing theme, and questionable plot. Though some who have read it describe it as almost elegiac, others can find it absolutely maddening. Don't try it unless you like slow.
I have to date read four novels by Trevor, and this was the best one yet.
I enjoyed this book. Quick read but lingers long in the mind and heart.
Never miss Trevor's work in the New Yorker. This is a wonderful story, one of the finest I've ever read.
A master of his craft at the peak of his powers, William Trevor continues to pen stories that captivate. His spare prose sparkles, and his limning of the human heart inevitably brings a rush of recognition. Such is surely the case with his latest work, The Story of Lucy Gault. We first meet Lucy when she is nine-years-old, and living a privileged life in 1920s Ireland. Her father's family home is Lahardane, a spacious estate with orchards, woods to explore, and a beach that she especially loves. Captain Gault, her father, is justifiably proud of his family's domain, but feels forced to leave when there is an arson attempt. They will go to England, he decides, to Lucy's mother's home. As distressed as he is at the thought of leaving, the Captain tries to convince himself that all will eventually be well, "`Oh, all this will fall into place,' he murmured more than once, confident in his reassurance to himself. Leaving, arriving, the furniture one day settled around them again: time and circumstance would arrange their lives, as in exile so many other lives had been arranged." If Captain Gault and his wife, Heloise, could come to terms with the family's upheaval, Lucy could not. So desperate was she to keep her family at Lahardane that the day before their planned departure she ran away, hoping this will convince her parents to stay. Her father remembers the flawed reassurances they had offered Lucy, the promises to return that might not be kept. "Disobedience had been a child's defiance," he mused, "deception the coinage they had offered her themselves." But rather than forcing her parents to remain, Lucy has unintentionally initiated a dreadful series of events, years of loss and recrimination. Upon finding the girl's summer vest snagged on a rock by the shore it is believed that Lucy has drowned herself rather than leave her beloved Lahardane. Grieved and bereft her parents move on to travel from place to place throughout the world, always seeking the solace of a new beginning, forgetfulness in an unfamiliar place. Unbeknownst to them Lucy has survived and is taken in by trusted servants, Henry and Bridget, who have no idea how to contact the Gaults. Lucy grows to young womanhood, very much alone until she meets Ralph and falls in love. It is a love that will never be, as Lucy has consigned herself to a life of waiting for her parents' return so that she might be reunited with them and ask their forgiveness. As young womanhood gives way to middle age Lucy comes into contact with a mentally incompetent man, the same man who had tried to burn her family home so many years ago. In scenes rich with forgiveness she visits him in the home to which he has been assigned. William Trevor has been called "the greatest living writer of short stories in the English language." Words of praise pale beside his wonderfully lyric prose, as he reveals longings shared by all of us and paints luminous word pictures of Ireland. Read "The Story of Lucy Gault" for pure pleasure; keep it as a treasure of English literature.